


Sinker

by crabmoney3



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Americano Water Works, Gen, Inter Xpresso, back on my bullshit it seems, but i am posting it anyways, coffee cup, have more sad nagomi, shelled one's pods, they're relevant, this one is super short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabmoney3/pseuds/crabmoney3
Summary: Nagomi McDaniel is a 5 1/2 star pitcher, leading her to pitch for the first time in a long time during the Coffee Cup. What memories will this unlock?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Sinker

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Goblin from the blaseball discord/crabitat saying "Hey I bet the last time Nagomi pitched was teaching York to play Blaseball"

Sinker

By crabmoney3

Nagomi rubs her thumb back and forth between scratchy red fibers and smooth white leather while taking deep breaths. The ball feels heavier, somehow, like the center is filled with lead. She turns it in her hand, noting the scuffs and imperfections she can use to her advantage on the mound. She thinks she remembers what to do. And even if she doesn’t, it’s just the Coffee Cup. It doesn’t really matter.

She isn’t a pitcher. She never has been, not really, but that doesn’t mean the talent isn’t there. Some of her teammates–former, current, and temporary–were surprised she was chosen to pitch for the Americano. It’s not something Nagomi talks about often, and why should it be? She’s always been a batter, not a pitcher. Pitching is too still for her. She gets antsy on the mound. At least as a batter she can take that energy and run.

It’s been years since Nagomi last stood on a pitcher’s mound, and the slight elevation feels wrong beneath her cleats, like she’s slightly off-balance. She shrugs off the sensation. It’s been a long siesta so far, even someone like Polkadot or MoCo would feel out of practice. She listens to the crowd of fans cheering in the stands around her as she gears up for the first pitch of the game. An echo of “Play Ball!” rings throughout the stadium. She stares down at her mitt and takes a deep breath. This is supposed to be a fun game. Nothing serious. 

She tells herself not to worry so much as she takes the time to grip the seams on the ball. She begins the windup, pulling her hands up to her chest and raising her front knee. Her head tilts up to focus on her target, and she freezes. Batting first for the Xpresso is Baby Doyle, and it stops her in her tracks, foot hovering above the pitcher’s plate while static buzzes in her ears. He’s so young. Younger even than York was.

Nagomi remembers the last time she pitched.

For a fleeting moment, Nagomi is in Hawaii, uncarcinized, standing on a mound made of white sand and gray shells. She is watching as York Silk picks up a bat twice his size and stumbles up to the makeshift plate. His mother stands nearby, laughing as she grabs him a more suitable piece of equipment. Nagomi smiles while twisting the ball in her glove. “All right,” she calls to him. “Remember what we talked about.”

York, now with a proportional bat, steps up to the home plate they’ve laid out on the beach. He’s a bit too far in, so Nagomi reminds him about the batter’s box. York looks down, shuffles backwards a bit, and gives Nagomi a big thumbs up. He has a perfect stance. Nagomi lets him take a practice swing first to get a feel for the new bat. He does, and then bangs the bat down twice on home plate just like he’s seen her do when she’s feeling especially confident during a game.

Nagomi winds up with a deep inhale, and just as she’s stepping down to release the ball, York changes. His grin with its missing teeth contorts to a frown. His eyes burn like embers with crimson and black tendrils framing his features. He’s not in a Friday’s uniform, he’s wearing gray and red with the insignia of a peanut. She stares at him, smoke billowing around, the boss fight with the Crabs all over again, and he looks back at her, empty.

“It’s just a game, isn’t it?” the shell of her stepson asks.

Nagomi’s stomach is in her throat, and she cannot move sounds past it. She slams her foot down on the pitcher’s plate but doesn’t release the ball, gripping it tighter and tighter until the seams leave an imprint on her palm. She closes her eyes, unable to look at what she’s done any longer.

“Come on, McDaniel!” a voice yells from the outfield. Nagomi opens her eyes. The smoke is gone.

“You gonna throw the ball or what?” the familiar and annoyed voice asks. It’s Aldon Cashmoney, a former teammate from her time on the Jazz Hands. She looks around the field. Everything is normal. Everything is fine and smells faintly of coffee. Baby Doyle is still up to bat, not York.

“Don’t be so nervous!” Cashmoney yells. “It’s just a game, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be fun.”

Nagomi nods. She takes a deep breath. “Right,” she thinks. “It’s only a game.” She winds up again. “It’s supposed to be fun,” she whispers.

She lets loose a beautiful pitch.

Baby Doyle hits a ground out.

Nagomi looks at the imprint of the ball in her hand. She was gripping the seam so tightly the stitches are nearly burned into the flesh of her fingers. She rubs her thumb over the indents and wishes she was batting instead.


End file.
